He read it carefully; then he spoke.
"What do you know of this?" he asked.
"Lord," said the tired man, flat on the bare ground and breathing heavily, "there is war in this land such as we have never seen, for Ofesi has guns and has slain all chiefs by his cunning; also there is a white man whom he visits secretly in the forest."
Sanders turned back to the Zaire, sick at heart. All these years he had kept his territories free from an expeditionary force, building slowly towards the civilisation which was every administrator's ideal. This meant a punitive force, the introduction of a new régime. The coming of armed white men against these children of his.
Who supplied the arms? He could not think. He had never dreamt of their importation. His people were too poor, had too little to give.
"Lord," called the resting messenger, as Sanders turned, "there are two white men in a puc-a-puc who rest by the Akasava city."
Sanders shook his head.
These men—who knew them by name?—were smugglers of gold, who had come through a swollen river by accident. (His spies were very efficient, be it noted.)
Whoever it was, the mischief was done.
"Steam," he said briefly to the waiting Abiboo.